Page 116 of Fractured Devotion
But I find myself back in my office. Later, I think. Maybe minutes? Hours?
I move to the restroom, and the mirror above the sink holds a single word, smeared across the glass in what looks like red marker but smells like iron.
Celestia.
I don’t remember writing it.
I stare at it until my legs buckle. Then I slide down the wall and pull my knees to my chest.
The room buzzes in and out of focus.
And then he’s there.
Kade.
He doesn’t speak.
He just closes the door behind him gently, his eyes scanning the wreckage of my posture, crumpled on the floor, shaking and broken. For a breath, I think he’ll say something and try to fill the silence with words that don’t help. But he doesn’t.
He crosses the room slowly, kneels beside me without hesitation, and wraps his arms around me like it’s the only way he remembers how to stay alive. His hands slide around my back with a steadiness that shouldn’t be possible, his breath slow and even, like he’s trying to sync mine to his.
He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t try to fix me.
He just holds me.
And for now, that’s enough.
We sit like that for a while. I don’t know how long. But long enough for the lights overhead to dim with the automatic night cycle and long enough for my breathing to steady against the calming rhythm of his.
My head rests against his chest, and for a few strange, suspended minutes, I don’t feel like a broken equation or a failedhypothesis. I feel… held. Like I matter to someone in a way that isn’t about my work or my past.
When I finally speak, it’s into the fabric of his shirt. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” he says, his voice low. “I just had a feeling.”
I should question that. I should find it suspicious or invasive. But I’m too tired. Too hollowed out by memory and grief.
His hand moves slowly up and down my back, grounding me. “Do you want me to stay?”
The rational part of me says no. That I need to process it alone. That his presence will muddy my thinking.
But the part of me still curled in the closet, breathing perfume and blood, wants something else.
“Yes,” I mumble.
He nods, as if he expected that. He helps me to my feet, and I move like I’ve aged years.
I don’t say thank you. I don’t need to.
We don’t speak again as we move to his office, since he says something about needing to pick up his things.
He picks up his laptop, and we leave the office. The hallway is empty, the lights dimmed. My legs carry me almost on instinct up the stairs to my backup apartment three floors above. He follows, his steps soundless behind me.
Inside, I flick on a lamp. The silence feels thicker here, but somehow safer. I gesture vaguely toward the couch.
“You can crash there,” I murmur.
He doesn’t argue. He just shrugs off his jacket and settles in like he’s done this before. I disappear into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror for a beat too long.
